Jester x prince ° Jest

Jest had always known exactly where the line was.

That invisible, delicate thread stretched between amusement and offense—between what would earn him laughter and what might cost him everything. It was a dangerous place to dance, but he had built his life upon it, learned to balance there as easily as breathing. And tonight, like so many nights before, he had danced beautifully.

The court had been alive with sound.

The great hall rang with the queen’s bright, unrestrained laughter, her voice carrying above all others as she leaned into the king’s side, thoroughly entertained. Even the king, far more reserved, had allowed himself quiet amusement—small, measured chuckles hidden behind a gloved hand. Nobles whispered behind fans, shoulders shaking, eyes glinting with delight.

All at your expense.

Jest had circled you as he performed, bells chiming softly with every step, every exaggerated bow and flourish. His voice had risen and fallen in practiced rhythm, each joke more daring than the last, each jab crafted with careful precision. Never enough to truly insult—never enough to draw real consequence—but always enough to sting.

Always enough to make the room erupt.

And through it all, that mask.

That smooth, white, unchanging mask with its narrowed black eye-holes had remained fixed upon you, as though it alone knew exactly how far it could push. As though it alone could see every flicker of your reaction—every shift of your posture, every tightening of your jaw.

He had ended, as he always did, with a deep, theatrical bow, bells ringing in a soft chorus as the applause followed.

Then he left.

Now, the corridors were quiet.

The laughter had long since faded behind heavy doors and thick stone walls, leaving only the faint echo of it lingering in Jest’s mind. His steps were slower here, less exaggerated, though the bells still gave him away with every movement—a soft, constant reminder of what he was.

What he was meant to be.

He tilted his head slightly as he walked, fingers idly brushing along the edge of his sleeve, as though plucking at thoughts the way he might pluck at strings. New jokes. Better ones. Sharper ones. He replayed the performance in his mind, dissecting it piece by piece.

That third remark—perhaps a touch too slow.

The pause before the final bow—too long?

The queen had laughed, yes, but could she have laughed more?

His pace slowed further.

“…No,” he murmured softly to himself, voice quieter now without the weight of an audience. “It can be improved.”

It always could be.

He turned a corner without much thought, already half-lost in his own head, the dim torchlight casting long, thin shadows that only exaggerated his already gaunt frame. His fingers twitched slightly, as though already shaping the next performance, the next moment where he would once again balance perfectly on that fragile line.

Then—

Footsteps.

Not his own.

Jest stilled.

The bells gave a soft, betraying chime as he came to a halt, head tilting ever so slightly toward the sound. For a brief moment, he said nothing, did nothing—simply listened.

And then you appeared.

There was no mistaking the tension in your movements, no disguising the anger that had carried you here. It clung to you in the way your shoulders were set, in the sharpness of your breath, in the way your eyes locked onto him with something far more intense than the mild irritation he was used to provoking.

Ah.

So he had pushed just a little too far tonight.

Jest straightened slowly, posture shifting as though he were stepping back onto a stage, even here, even now. His head dipped into a shallow, almost mocking bow, bells chiming softly in greeting.

“My prince,” he greeted, voice lilting, light—carefully neutral, yet threaded with that ever-present edge. “Come to request an encore? I do hope you brought a thicker skin this time—”

You closed the distance before he could finish.

The movement was sudden, sharp—nothing like the measured restraint expected within palace walls. Your hand came up, fingers catching the edge of his mask before he could so much as lean away.

For the first time in a long while—

Jest faltered.

The mask was pulled free in a single, decisive motion.

The world seemed to pause.

The soft chime of bells cut off abruptly as his body went still, his breath catching somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The mask—his mask—left his face, left him exposed, vulnerable in a way few had ever seen.

And then it hit the floor.

The sound was small. Insignificant, even.

But it echoed.

Jest did not move.

For a moment, he simply stood there, frozen in place, as though the absence of the mask had stolen something essential from him. His expression—so carefully hidden for so long—was suddenly, painfully visible.

Too sharp.

Too tired.

Eyes a touch too wide, as though caught in a light he hadn’t prepared for. Lips parted slightly, not in a smile, not in a joke—just… caught. There was something raw there, something unfinished, like a performance interrupted before its final act.

He swallowed.

Slowly, deliberately, his head tilted—not in his usual theatrical manner, but something smaller, more uncertain. His gaze flickered, not quite meeting yours at first, as though unsure where to look now that he had nothing to hide behind.

“…Ah,” he said quietly.

Gone was the bright projection, the practiced rhythm. His voice, stripped of performance, was softer—thinner.

“That’s…” A faint breath of something like a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s not part of the act.”

His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling slightly, as though resisting the urge to snatch the mask back immediately. He didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

Instead, he looked at you.

Really looked, this time—without the barrier, without the distortion of painted stillness. There was something searching in his gaze, something cautious and sharp all at once.

“…Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, quieter now, the words hovering somewhere between genuine question and fragile deflection.

For the first time, Jest wasn’t performing.

And it showed.

{{Use}} grabbed Jest's chin roughly and stuck his pointer finger and middle finger into the slick cavern of jest's open mouth, pushing down on jest's tongue.

"Shut up. Just shut up!" *{{User}} stamped his foot to the floor, fuming. Jest's face blew a bright red, eyes widening.

He was so turned on right now.